


Maltheist

by kudosmoon



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Ambiguous Route (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), Angst, Bisexual Sylvain (as if there is any other kind), Dimilix if you squint, Gen, Obsession, Religious Discussion, Sylvix if you squint even harder, Theology, time fluidity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-05
Updated: 2020-12-05
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:47:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,385
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27903190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kudosmoon/pseuds/kudosmoon
Summary: What you think about most: that is your god.
Relationships: Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd & Felix Hugo Fraldarius, Felix Hugo Fraldarius & Ingrid Brandl Galatea, Felix Hugo Fraldarius & Sylvain Jose Gautier
Comments: 1
Kudos: 9





	Maltheist

The most impactful lesson that Felix ever takes away from Garreg Mach is not one he hears in a classroom. It is also not on the training ground - though no doubt that would come as a surprise to many of the people who think they know him.

It is, of all places, in the dining hall.

In those days (or indeed, many of those since), it would not be much of an exaggeration to say that Felix does not leave the training ground except for required lessons, missions, and the needs of a mortal body. Of those needs, food is easily the most obnoxious. Sleep he can forgive: there is a satisfaction to relieving the day’s aches and pains. Exhaustion is a sign that he has done well.

By contrast, what is hunger a sign of? One moment he would be hard at work, his mind a blank slate. Then his stomach would turn and make a noise like a baby wyvern, and all at once he would realize it was past noon.

Felix would try to ignore the pangs, but they would invariably begin to distract him, affect his performance. That would not do - and so he would have to concede, making his way to the dining hall.

The dining hall is loud in a way that doesn’t make sense to Felix. He has always been of the opinion that a warrior eats quickly and quietly, then moves on to whatever his next task is. Everyone else, though, squeals and snorts and makes a _meal_ of their meal. A girl screaming at Sylvain for the (unforgivable) crime of being Sylvain bleeds into animated discussion of tactics among the Black Eagles which then bleeds into the biggest one of the Golden Deer _singing with his mouth full_. It feels like Felix is swept up in a million pointless diversions, a tornado of completely unnecessary sound.

It’s utterly overwhelming. He almost storms out and tries to find somewhere else to eat every time. But the marketplace would only be worse.

So he gets whatever is on the menu for the day and finds the least crowded corner. He spares a moment to glare at the boar, all fake smiles and artificial kindness as usual. Felix _always_ has a moment to makes sure the boar knows that _someone_ knows what he really is. Then he finds his own place, sits himself down, closes his eyes, and tries to concentrate on just one conversation. Don’t fight the army: fight one soldier.

At a table nearby, Church priests debate scripture. The topic is dull, but it’s an easy one to focus on. A sickly, skeletal man pounds on the table. He is red in the face, his voice booming despite the fact that he looks like a child playing in his father’s cassock, “What are you saying, Seteth? The Goddess demands utmost devotion - there is no room in Her worship for _other gods_!”

Seteth lets out the smallest of sighs, and Felix actually has to strain himself to eavesdrop when he asks, “Who can devote themselves to the Goddess _completely_?” He uses the same tones in a debate as at the head of a classroom. There is no apparent disagreement for him save the other party’s error, which he is taking time to correct, “No one. I would venture to say that many people - good, virtuous people, might go days at a time without the Goddess crossing their minds.”

“Those people are called _heretics_ ,” the priest spits. Others nod along with him, though Felix isn’t sure that that’s a good point. _He_ almost never thinks about the Goddess, unless someone actively brings Her up. Even when he curses in Her name, it doesn’t make anything spring to mind.

“When you wake in the morning, is your first thought for the Goddess? Do you think of nothing but Her, do you thank Her for every action, every breath? Do you have no hopes or dreams save to please Her?” None of them answer Seteth, but their silence speaks volumes, “Then how can you say that you have truly, _fully_ devoted yourself to Her? What you think about most: _that_ is your god.”

The skeletal priest spits at the notion. The others rise to join him when he hisses, “We will see what the Archbishop thinks of this _idolatry_.”

They march off, and Seteth sighs again. Nothing ever comes of it: the Archbishop is either disinterested in Seteth’s philosophy or she shares it. Felix is probably the one who thinks about the exchange for the longest.

He ruminates on the idea for a long time: long enough that his plate miraculously becomes empty. Then he thinks on it for a little while after that.

The idea turns over and over again in his head, and Felix finds that its simplicity has the ring of truth.

He sits alone so long that the boar finds him. He gives him a wave and a bow he doesn’t mean, “Felix, may I join you?” Felix must say something, or make some noise of affirmation, as the boar sits in front of him. He’s learned the ways of humans - worse, of _noble_ humans, and descends immediately into niceties, “It’s rare to see you lingering here - is everything alright? You look pensive.”

This sort of thing sounds false enough coming from the noble scions of the other houses. From the boar, it’s a slap in the face. He oughtn’t pretend to care when Felix and he both know that he’d rather gore Felix, disposing of the only one who he can’t hide his true self from.

Felix wishes he could put all that into his eyes. He mutters, “‘What you think about most: _that_ is your god.’”

He mutters it too low. The boar puts a hand to his ear, asks, “Pardon?”

Felix glares at him, snapping, “Whatever you think about the most is your god. If you’re going to waste my time, at least _listen_.”

The boar’s lip twitches: Felix gets a brief glimpse of tusk. Then the mask fall back down, and cheerily, he asks, “I didn’t know you were interested in theology. Where did you hear that?”

“Seteth,” Felix answers, clipped. He wishes he could just leave. Staring down this thing that believes it is Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd is nauseating - and, if he is honest with himself, painful.

“Seteth,” the boar repeats, setting his chin in a hand, “It’s an interesting theory. I’m not sure I agree. Did he say-”

“Why?” Felix growls, “Afraid of what that means _your_ god is, boar?” It takes the beast aback, and Felix takes the opportunity to retreat. He shoots to his feet, firing one last parting shot, “At least there’s enough humanity left in you to know you should be ashamed of it.”

He returns to the training ground, and normalcy resumes. But the idea sticks in Felix’s head. Every now and again, he catches himself looking at his classmates, trying to guess their gods.

Sylvain would have people think that he has many. That his is a vast pantheon, with dozens - maybe even scores - of altars for him to worship at.

In truth, there is only one god, and one altar. What Sylvain is is an itinerant preacher. He proselytizes his faith far and wide, always on the lookout for new converts. This is the true role of the women (and the occasional pretty man) that are his public gods.

He lures them in with promises of a pleasures eternal until at last they bow their heads in prayer. After that they are saved and Sylvain must move on to the next poor, beautiful lost soul. Some may return to the temple for a few weeks, but their continued prayer is less important than recruiting fresh converts.

Sylvain’s god is certainly impressive, and his congregation is perhaps the fastest growing at Garreg Mach. But Felix has never had time for charlatans or hucksters. And the converted seem to take no joy in their newfound faith. To Felix, the faith and the ritual and frankly the god seem like a waste of time.

Though not as much as _Ingrid’s_ gods. _She_ is a polytheist in truth: history and legend have given her as many knights to worship as there are stars in the sky.

Felix doesn’t know that much about the gods of Sreng, but from what he understands, Ingrid’s are closer to the northern folk’s than to the Goddess. _She_ insists on her perfection: She is the progenitor and the judge of all. The gods of Sreng are flawed, they reflect humanity’s imperfections. Their strengths are an example to be followed, but there are also cautionary tales in their weaknesses.

If _that_ was the sort of face Ingrid put on her many gods, that might be fine. But she imagines each of the knights from her stories as another perfect being. They have set forth their code, and Ingrid will bend over backwards to ensure that she embodies it.

Felix hates her god ‘Glenn’ most of all, because he knew the boy it was fashioned from. He was _not_ a shining paragon, and it robs the boy he was and the man he could have been of their identity to say that he was.

When the war comes, it kills Felix to see that the nature of Ingrid’s faith does not change. She _sees_ that knights’ honor and valor only extends as far as survival does. Knights lie, knights steal from the weak, knights kill like beasts when their own needs demand it. Instead of reaching the obvious conclusion that the _code_ is the lie, that her gods are false, Ingrid insists that this is just a sign that the criminals and the beasts are ‘no true knight.’ She is right: there _is_ no true knight.

But still she will hold herself to a standard no one else in history has met. She will continue to pretend that it is _her_ that is falling short. Her gods always ask more from her - so much more than their real-world equivalents ever asked from themselves.

Ingrid is the closest thing that the world has ever known to a true knight. She is too wrapped up in her reverence for idols to ever realize that.

Even the boar finds its way to replicating human faith. After all, it isn’t that he is unthinking, only unfeeling. He _does_ have thoughts, and therefore he _does_ have a god.

It looks like you would expect a beast in human form’s god to look: it is a crude imitation of human worship. He puts a human face on it - several, in fact. He says that it is the dead who demand sacrifice, but in truth it is Death. His god cannot be encompassed in the guise of a dead king or a fallen brother. There is something ancient and primal to it.

His is a god of death. It sits on its throne and demands sacrifice. In their academy days, the boar can slake its bloodlust with offerings of bandits, of heretics. The Church, too, demands that death be meted out: their need coincides nicely with the boar’s.

When the boar marks a man for sacrifice, usually the ritual is carried out swiftly. His god does not care _how_ people die, only that they do. It allows the boar to hide his true nature.

Until he no longer wishes to.

The Flame Emperor rises, and the boar’s god rumbles daily for his blood. Death is a constant in Felix’s life, but he finds it no more worthy of worship than Sylvain’s god or Ingrid’s knights. But even a nonbeliever such as him cannot help but feel the zealotry radiating from the boar. His god’s hunger grows and grows, and with it his determination to feed it. Offerings of the Church’s enemies no longer suffice: the boar has promised Death the Flame Emperor. Anything else is merely a distraction - an appetizer.

The boar kills and he kills and it is never enough to satisfy his god. If nothing else, he is pious: he atones for the fact that he cannot offer Edelgard with the quantity of his sacrifices. Rivers of blood flow in the name of the boar’s god. He rips and he tears and he finally stops pretending that he is not a wild animal, and it is still never enough. His god is hungry, and though it will never be satisfied, the boar does not see this as a reason not to try to feed it.

He is everything Felix ever imagined him as and more. Satisfaction at having been proven right quickly gives way to revulsion as the bodies pile higher.

Felix can do nothing, but he also cannot look away. Dimitri is a great and terrible storm; a tempest, and he will consume all if that is what it takes to please his god of death.

For the longest time, Felix believes that _he_ is his own god. Training is his prayer - in a completion of the old cliché, his body is his temple. He even has a Nemesis to match his Seiros. The universe is him and the boar, and their inevitable conflict.

As the years go by, though, he is forced to face the fact that that is not so. Felix’s god is a great and terrible storm. Once he sees it, it is in everything that he does.

Wherever he goes, Felix proselytizes to the masses about what Dimitri is. None believe him at first, but as Dimitri embraces his bestial nature, the faith grows. By then, it is too late to stop him.

Felix makes himself stronger so that he can emulate and surpass Dimitri. It feels like an impossible task, but nonetheless one he _must_ carry out.

His god only demands one sacrifice. Felix gives it more than that, not least because he does not know the marked one’s identity - whether the offering is man or beast.

After years and years of trying to keep from falling under anyone’s influence, Felix finds that he is just another holy warrior. He may hate his god, but every time he raises his sword, it is for Him.

So Felix accepts it. The war reaches its final days, and he steps onto the battlefield.

And he worships.


End file.
